


The Worst Thing a Flower Can Do To Us

by Alltimefro



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Old Jaskier | Dandelion, Sick Character, Song Lyrics, im so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:02:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltimefro/pseuds/Alltimefro
Summary: Jaskier is human, he's destined to grow old. They both knew that. They had to accept it decades ago when they finally allowed themselves to love each other. It doesn't make it any less painful, though, when the day comes that Geralt finally has to let him go.Because after all sometimes the worst thing a flower can do to us is to die.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65





	1. When A Witcher Cries

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song Flags by SYML   
> I would recommend putting that song on in the background for 100% sad

They’d always known this would happen, from the day that dumb bard had sidled up to the Witcher’s table and demanded a review “in three words or less…”  
How many years ago that was...  
Now the humble bard had nearly come to the end of the ride along. Geralt could tell. It was in the way Jaskier huddled closer on cold nights, the way he took longer to rise from his seat, the creak of joints that his Witcher senses allowed him to hear. They both knew this would likely be the last winter the human would spend in the halls of Kaer Morhen. Neither mentioned it but they both knew, it was spoken in the long looks, the touches that lingered, the way Geralt could never look away, as if the next time he looked back the bard wouldn’t be there. Like clinging on to each other could stop the passing of time.   
Jaskier’s once chestnut brown hair had grown grey in recent years, he would joke “We match! I’m basically a Witcher too now, all I need is the scary eyes and to work on my brooding.” Geralt laughed at that, a reaction reserved for Jaskier’s jokes only. 

By spring the bard’s long walks in the grounds of the keep began to grow shorter. The Witcher would watch as he’d stop after a dozen steps to catch his breath or sit in the grass for a rest. Geralt spent the spring building benches along the path; all a dozen steps apart.

Jaskier grew thinner, paler. By the start of summer coughs would rack his frame, echo through the stone halls of the keep. Geralt would lie awake at night listening to each wet cough, straining to hear the deep breath after it stopped, knowing deep in his heart that one day the deep breath wouldn’t be heard.   
Jaskier’s songs were getting sadder. He would sing the songs of their adventures, the monsters they’d killed, their time spent together. Geralt would listen, remembering every note, swearing to himself to never forget the sound of the man’s voice or the gentle strumming of the lute. The new songs Jaskier wrote were calm, sad, but peaceful; Geralt knew they were the beginning of the bard’s goodbye.   
When winter cam Jaskier was too sick to leave the keep. Geralt would bring him plants. Pretty flowers or large leaves from the tallest trees. Every day the Witcher would carry him, along with his lute, up to the highest balcony, the one from which you could see the sea. And they would both sing until the sun set.   
Jaskier’s smile was still bright on his paling face but in his eyes Geralt could see the pain he was hiding. At night when Jaskier’s coughing would keep him awake, Geralt would lean close to his ear and carefully cast the spell to calm his mind. Jaskier would seem to lose all tension from his bones, he would sigh, curl into the Witcher’s body and peacefully fall asleep. 

It was spring again when the smile started to fade from Jaskier’s face. That’s when Geralt knew it would come soon. The end of the days when laughter would ring down the corridors of his home. The last of the days he wanted to live. The last days he would feel love.   
There were days Jaskier would do little but lay still, he would watch Geralt with eyes full of too many emotions for either of them to understand. They would sit quietly simply being there, and it was enough. There were still the good days too, when Jaskier felt well enough to sit up, to eat the food Geralt brought, to force another laugh from the Witcher’s chest. Both of them not knowing if it would be the last.   
Then came the day when they both knew. 

Jaskier looked up at Geralt with dulling eyes, “Can we go to the balcony?” he had said quietly. Geralt didn’t want to go, but he couldn’t deny Jaskier his wish. As he began to lift the smaller man he heard a quiet voice murmur, “bring my lute too, please.” Geralt nodded, unable to look into the bard’s eyes in fear of what he would see there. He placed the bard gently against the headboard before carefully handing the man his beloved instrument. Jaskier looked at it in his arms. Running his hand gently over the patterns engraved in the wood. “I really do love this lute. If you do ever meet Filavandrel again, will you give it back to him for me? And make sure he knows how much I loved it.”  
Geralt stared at him, a wave of more emotion than he had felt in his lifetime hit him at once. He looked into the bard’s eyes and it was like the world stopped for a moment. He felt the burning as his eyes filled, panic flared in him, nothing had ever made his eyes water. But the bard had that effect on him, managed to make him experience the impossible. He swallowed the tears down, “Of course, Jaskier.” The bard nodded in silent response, swallowing his own tears, now wasn’t the time for crying, he thought.   
The Witcher carried him like all the other times they had done this, but his steps were slower, as if he could stop the inevitable passing of time by simply moving slowly. They emerged onto the balcony and Geralt set his bard in the seat with the best view of the ocean, remembering the time Jaskier had told him “I always wanted to die watching the sea…”   
They sat for a moment, letting the quiet peace of the world seep into their bones. Jaskier strummed his lute, looking from his weak hands to the yellow eyed man in front of him. “I’m glad I spent my life with you Geralt,”  
“Don’t” Geralt interrupted gently, his voice wavering under the weight of all the love it carried for the dying man.   
“Really, Geralt. I don’t…I don’t know what kind of man I would have been if we didn’t meet, but I’m sure I wouldn’t’ have liked him as much.” Geralt could feel tears nearing the edge of his eyelids, nearly flowing over and down his cheeks. “I wrote a song.” Jaskier said almost dumbly, as if it was too complicated to explain to himself what it was. He looked into Geralt’s eyes and in a silent communication they both knew; it was a goodbye.  
Geralt nodded, breathing in deeply through his nose, fighting back emotion that threatened to overcome him.   
And with that nod Jaskier began his last song.

"Somewhere in the fog I heard a cry  
It kept me up for hours  
Haunts me every night  
Screaming through my veins, the fire spreads  
Fill me up with poison  
Dark clouds overhead, I'm soaking wet"

Jaskier paused coughs racking his body as his lungs fought against his ribcage. Geralt used a piece of cloth to wipe away the blood that had erupted from his throat, from the man’s chin and the cool wood of his lute. Jaskier took a moment to catch his breath and continued. 

"I'm hurt, I'm hurt you didn't know  
That there's no pretty way to tell you so  
I'm tired, so tired I'm letting go  
I've been burning flags to let you know  
Time is up, time has flown  
Time has flown"

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat, Geralt braced himself for another chain of rattling coughs but they never came. Jaskier swallowed and allowed the tears to flow freely down his face as he continued to sing. 

"Here he comes, he lays beside my head  
he holds me through my winter  
In this awful bed  
Softly, in my ear, he casts his spell  
Fuck this cursed cancer  
Send it straight to hell, he knows me well

I'm hurt, this body's wearing thin  
A beautiful mistake I'm living in  
I'm tired, sometimes I fantasize  
They push me out to sea, coins on my eyes  
Family, friends say goodbye  
Say goodbye"

It was now Geralt realised he was crying, his yellow eyes burnt in a way he had never felt, his face was warm with the saltwater from his tears. Jaskier looked at him, a sort of glimmer shone in his eyes, like he could feel how much he meant to the Witcher, even if no poet could ever find the words for it. 

"I'm hurt, not hurt enough to die  
See I was born to raise, born to fight  
I'm tired, not tired enough to sleep  
So, devil on my chest, don't sing with me  
Take my breath, let me be  
Oh, let me be"

The final strums of the lute rang out over the silence.   
Geralt could do nothing but stare at the bard. He felt so much it hurt. More than any wound any other could ever inflict he slowly stood, covering the short distance between he and Jaskier in half a step. He collapsed in front of the bard and buried his head into Jaskier’s knees. The Witcher sobbed. Not for himself but for Jaskier, because he didn’t deserve to die, for the hundreds of people that will never hear his voice sing his songs, for the plants in the garden he could no longer tend, for the halls he would never fill with sound, or the paths he would never walk on. He sobbed because the one thing he had ever truly loved was being taken from his world. He sobbed because he still had a long life to keep living alone. He sobbed because even though Jaskier was the one dying he was still running his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair, in the way no one will ever be able to recreate.   
They remained quiet for a long while. Jaskier looking out over the forest to the ocean beyond. Geralt looking out into the horizon from where his head rested on the bard’s knees.  
Jaskier’s breathing became more laboured as the sun began to sink towards the horizon. Geralt sat up quickly immediately holding onto the man to steady him as wet coughs ripped through a weakened body. Geralt caught him as he slipped from his seat and settled the smaller man in front of him on the floor, pressing his heaving body into his chest. When the coughing stopped Jaskier’s breaths were quiet and short. Geralt looked at the bard’s face the gold light of the sun setting reflected of his thin pale skin. Geralt could almost fool himself into thinking they were back to many decades ago, watching a sunset from their camp on yet another adventure. Before life and time and age caught up with them both. “Geralt…” a small weak voice pulled the Witcher’s attention, if he were human, he likely wouldn’t have heard it. He looked to the bard looking properly now, wiping the blood from the man’s chin again. “In three words or less…” Jaskier managed to mumble before stumbling into another coughing fit. Geralt held him, patting his back gently and wiping the blood from his mouth. Now when the coughing stopped Jaskier seemed to lose the strength to hold himself up. Geralt leant the man against his chest, holding his head up so he could still look out to sea. “Three words aren’t enough to tell how much I love you.” Geralt rumbled, turning Jaskier’s head to look into the hooded blue eyes. Jaskier let out a small hum and a smile tugged on the corners of his lips. Geralt turned his head back out to sea and kissed him on the forehead, casting axii as the bard’s breathing became painful. The spell did its work, as Jaskier let out a sigh before closing his eyes. Geralt strained his ears desperately trying to hear the breath that should come after. 

But it never came. 

He stayed until sunrise, listening, tears running silently, waiting for another rattling breath to fill Jaskier’s lungs. 

But it never came. 

It would never come.


	2. When A Witcher Tries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to get worse before it gets better, sorry.   
> I literally have an entire essay to write for uni but instead I'm writing this because I need to make it better

At noon the next day the weather turned. Geralt could smell the storm on the wind. When the black clouds began to drift overhead, he finally rose from the floor of the balcony. Carefully he lifted Jaskier and his lute from the floor and carried them indoors. For a moment he stood, unsure what to do with the body of his love. He took him to their room, laid him gently on their bed. The room was filled with all the flowers Geralt had picked for him, all the notes with words hurriedly scribbled on by a bard whose brain could think faster than his hand could write. Geralt fell into the chair next to the bed and sobbed again. For how long he didn’t know but soon the storm had passed, the smell of rain seeping in through the open window. A small painful noise escaped his throat when he thought of how Jaskier used to love the rain in summer. He sat and stared at the motionless form of Jaskier, it was strange, to see the man who was always moving, be it humming or tapping a foot, be lifelessly still.   
A few days passed.   
The day after Jaskier’s death Geralt would have said the worst pain he had ever felt was when he was sobbing, holding the cold form of his bard. But now, he knew worse pain existed. The hollowness in his heart that made it feel to empty and so full at the same time. The dull throbbing from behind his eyes from spending hours in the dark sobbing alone. The burning of needing to cry but having no tears left to spill. He was hungry but couldn’t find the will to eat. He was tired but wouldn’t be able to find the peace of sleep. 

When Yennefer arrived with Ciri it had been three days. Geralt had sent a letter on the second day after Jaskier’s death, tied to the leg of a crow. He couldn’t find it in himself to write the words to tell the events of the past days, so he had simply written ‘I need you to come to Kaer Morhen.’ He knew that would worry them, but he couldn’t quite find in in himself to care. He felt an odd sort of relief then he saw Yennefer and Ciri emerge from a portal in the middle of the main hall. Braced to battle whatever evil was threatening the Witcher’s home. When their eyes fell on Geralt he saw Ciri lower her sword, and Yennefer’s face change quickly from confusion to sadness to the kindest expression he had ever seen form on her features. Ciri’s confused expression changed to pained sadness when she looked around for Jaskier, only to realise he wasn’t there.   
Yennefer walked quickly to Geralt who was slumped against the wall of the hall, dead eyes following her movements with no emotion. “Geralt,” she breathed out wrapping her arms around the Witcher’s broad shoulders. Geralt felt like he’d taken his first breath since Jaskier’s song had finished on the balcony. Ciri quickly appeared at their side “where is he?” she asked voice quiet and wavering. Geralt looked up at her blankly and pointed down the corridor leading to the bedroom. Ciri bowed her head to him and walked heavily in the direction Geralt had given her. 

When Ciri emerged from the room, many hours later, her eyes were red and her sleeves were damp. Yennefer wordlessly handed her another bowl of the stew she was almost forcing Geralt to eat. They sat in silence. Silence was all that seemed possible without the idle noise brought by their beloved bard’s presence.   
Yennefer spends the next day silently pulling Geralt back together. Makes him take a bath, makes him eat, sleep, and look after himself. Geralt would never want to admit how heavily he leant on her shoulder when his legs felt like deadweight and his muscles ached with the weight of grief. Over dinner Yennefer tentatively brings up the subject they were all avoiding, “How do you want to bury him, Geralt?” she asks quietly. A heavy silence falls over the three of them, a silence that Jaskier would have broken casually, Geralt thinks with a spike of pain in his chest. Ciri looks down and Geralt can smell the salt of the fresh tears falling from her eyes. He tries to answer but even if he could find the words, he doubts they would have made any sound, Jaskier was always the one with the right words. Instead he simply looks down and pushes the food around his plate. “Geralt,” The sorceress says gently squeezing his hand in hers, its smaller than Jaskier’s hand, “he deserves better than to sit and rot in that room.” As harsh as the words were, they worked, Geralt seemed to snap out of the numbness of his thoughts and stood. “We built the boat when he started to get sick.” He said, pausing to attempt clearing the lump in his throat. “Its… it’s what he wants-” Geralt’s deep voice breaks as he remembers that the light that was Jaskier had truly been extinguished, “wanted.” He finished quietly. Yennefer nodded; her violet eyes rimmed with red as she looked down to her plate. Jaskier would have frowned at them when they threw away their meals that night, he never did approve of wasting food, “some people are starving Geralt.” If he closed his eyes, he could hear the exasperated scolding tone of the bard’s voice as he said it. It was a sleepless night for all of them. 

At sunrise the next day Geralt lifts Jaskier from the bed and carries him out of the keep. He looks for a long while at the lute sitting in the chair by the bed, he decides to keep his word to Jaskier, he’ll return the lute to the elves rather than burn it along with his bard. He begins the long walk down to the coast with Yennefer walking in front and Ciri trailing behind. They walk silently, Yen and Ciri stopping frequently to pick flowers to arrange when they reach the bay. They make it to the beach by midday. The pebbles shifting under their feet as they walk toward the small boat waiting above the high tide line.   
Geralt lays him in the wooden vessel, stepping back to watch Ciri and Yennefer place the flowers and herbs around him. The smells of lilies, sage, and many others all flowing through Geralt’s nostrils. Geralt finds himself almost smiling, Jaskier wrote a song about sage and lilies once.   
When the flowers were all arranged and the bard laid peacefully, looking like he could be only sleeping surrounded by a selection of buttercups and dandelions. The Witcher reached down gently run his fingers over the lines on Jaskier’s face. His hands flinched when the skin he touched was cold. It took all of his will to pull his shaking hands away. The Witcher had seen death before, he’d seen war, buried friends, but he had never felt grief like this.   
Geralt looked up eyes moving from Ciri’s to Yennefer’s wet faces and dipped his head in a small nod before beginning to push the boat towards the water. He was snapped from his numbness by Ciri placing a hand on his shoulder before grasping the side of the moving boat and helping to push. Yennefer appeared on the other side and also began to help push the smooth wood towards the gentle water. Geralt looked at the two women, they knew full well that he was capable of pushing the boat himself. Yennefer met his confused expression with kind eyes and gave him a reassuring smile. Geralt felt his heart clench at the support the women were pouring over him.   
When the boat hit the water Ciri and Yennefer let go, allowing Geralt to push Jaskier out into the open ocean alone. Geralt waded out after the boat into the shallows, he stopped reluctantly when the water reached his upper thighs. He allowed the wood of the boat to slide under his grip reluctant to let go of his beloved Jaskier. Soon the current of the waves pulled to boat from him. He let his hand fall as the vessel began to drift out to sea. Yennefer had waded out after him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to look her in the eyes. She raised her hand and looked at him with a question in her expression, Geralt nodded and she murmured a word in elder, eyes turning back to the boat rocking gently in the small waves. Geralt watched as the small wooden boat carrying his best friend, his love, his Jaskier, ignited into orange flame.   
He watched for a moment until he could no longer hold back the sobs in his lungs. Yennefer held him as he stood waist deep in the sea sobbing into her shoulder as Jaskier burned.   
He barely remembered walking slowly back up the beach, sitting in the pebbles, watching as the smoke rose from the flames. All too soon the boat became little more than a small fleck on the horizon. Geralt hadn’t looked away for a second, a small part of him hoping that the bard would simply wake up, jump from the burning vessel, and swim safely back to shore, alive and singing. He knew though, that it would never happen. That he would never hear such a beautiful voice sing another word. That skilled hands would never play another note on that elven lute that was resting in a now silent and empty room.   
When the sun began to set, the boat had disappeared, whether it had burnt or sunk away beneath the waves they would never know. All they knew was that Jaskier had gone.   
Yennefer pulled him up and began to lead him back towards the keep. Ciri walked beneath one of his arms, Yen under the other. His legs were moving automatically, his mind was blank, his heart empty. Once they reached the keep Geralt pulled away from the arms of his friends and began the slow climb of stairs towards the balcony, the one from which you could see the sea. The one on which Jaskier sang his final song. Where a Witcher had discovered he could cry. Where he had learnt he would much rather feel nothing, as the rumours said. He didn’t turn to see Ciri put out a hand to stop Yennefer from following, they both knew he needed this time to spend alone. 

It was a clear night, the kind when Geralt would wake Jaskier and drag him up to the roof to lay and count the stars, ignoring Jaskier’s half-hearted grumblings over being woken in the middle of the night. Geralt stared out at the horizon, almost glaring at the line where the stars met the sea. He felt anger like he had never felt before. A kind of burning rage that made him want to break everything anybody could ever love. Instead he sat scowling at the night sky as if he could intimidate it into giving his Jaskier back. He felt too much. Too many emotions and all too strong to keep within himself. So, he let himself feel.   
When Ciri emerged onto the balcony, she found Geralt with dried tears on his sleeping face and blood on his knuckles. She sighed, eyes scanning over the broken furniture and chairs thrown into the forest below. She walked quietly to the slumped form of her mentor, her father figure. She shook his shoulder gently, not really wanting to wake Geralt from much needed rest. His red rimmed and bloodshot eyes cracked open, moving heavily to Ciri’s face. “let’s get you to a bed,” she said helping Geralt to stand. He nodded a little, unable to use his voice after the pained roars he had cast out into the quiet night. Ciri lead him down the stairs and toward his and Jaskier’s room. As Ciri stopped outside the door he continued to stumble on. He could smell the lingering scent of blood and death hanging heavy over the room, almost drowning out the sweet scent of Jaskier. He couldn’t go in there. The dead flowers waited, along with the silent lute, and the sheets that laid under Jaskier’s lifeless body. Ciri looked confused for a moment before realisation flared in her eyes and her shoulders slumped, eyebrows raising in empathy. She caught up with Geralt and walked next to him, allowing him to rest some of his weight on her shoulder. Ciri led him to the room she was staying in. When Geralt didn’t argue she lowered him onto the bed. As his back made contact with the mattress the final fragment of his strength, that had carried him since the day Jaskier died, seemed to ebb away. Ciri gently placed her hand on his hair, twisting some of the dirty white hair between her fingers. 

Geralt slept for two days. It was a week longer before he could find the will to leave the bed. Even with Yennefer and Ciri bringing increasingly desperate incentives for him to get up.   
“I’ve drawn you a warm bath,”  
“Ciri brought home a deer for dinner,”  
“Roach misses you,”  
“Yennefer said she’ll open a portal, to wherever you want to go,”  
“there’s a dragon attacking”  
Ciri was surprised when even the threat of a dragon attack wasn’t enough to pull the Witcher from the room. She was becoming increasingly worried. Geralt would eat little, talk less, sleep most of the days away and wander the halls aimlessly at night.   
One night as the summer days began to shorten and cool into the autumn months, Yennefer found Geralt pacing up and down a long corridor within the keep. “Geralt,” she said snapping the yellow eyed man from the trance of watching the flagstones pass beneath his feet. “you can’t keep moping forever,”  
“Hmm.” The Witcher responded, the ‘watch me’ in the tone obvious to the sorceress.  
“Geralt.” She scolded fondly “He wouldn’t have wante-”  
“Don’t” Geralt snapped turning quickly on his feet to glare down into Yennefer’s eyes. The sorceress stood taller, glaring back with enough force to rival the Witcher.   
“look, all I’m saying is that… Geralt we’ve both got long lives ahead of us. We can’t spend all of that time like this.” Geralt’s squared shoulders slumped, his eyes dropping as the anger fell away to reveal a desperate sadness.   
“I don’t know how to do this without him.” His voice rumbled quietly,  
“I know Geralt, I know.” Yennefer said. Geralt turned and strode down the corridor away from her before she could continue. 

Yennefer was quiet by nature, Ciri was subdued by grief, and Geralt could barely stand the quiet in the halls anymore. It had been over a month. Jaskier’s scent hung in the halls, as if woven into the stone itself. Some days Geralt loved it, it was almost like the bard was still there. Other days it felt like an assault on his senses, the building itself cruelly mocking him. He was growing sick of the moments when he would turn a corner expecting the warm body of his bard to be waiting for him on the other side. Only for his chest to feel like it was caving in when he was greeted with nothing but cold empty air.

Both Yen and Ciri were shocked when Geralt strode into the main hall one morning speaking clearly, “We should leave. Go somewhere. There are still monsters to kill, Yen you’ll be able to find work somewhere,” They both looked on in stunned silence, Geralt growing sick of the quiet decided the fill the room with his own voice for once, “I’m going to find the elves. They can live here. We can go and get a house somewhere, maybe by the coast…”  
“Geralt,” Yennefer said quietly   
“Yen I don’t think I can stay here any longer. It’s too quiet without…” Geralt’s voice faded, unable to bring himself to say the bard’s name.  
“okay.” Ciri said from her seat across from Yennefer “It is too quiet here. But make sure it’s really what you want to do Geralt.”

After two days Geralt’s mind was set. He strapped his swords to his back and packed Jaskier’s lute in its protective case. Ciri had tacked up the horses, one for her, one for Yen, and of course Roach all stood ready when Geralt left the doors of the keep.   
The journey to the elves took days, they camped outside the towns. Geralt didn’t want to set foot in another tavern or inn without Jaskier by his side. Pleasant conversation flowed between the three of them. It wasn’t much, it wasn’t the same as when Jaskier would sing as he walked, there wasn’t a constant stream of words filling the quiet, there wasn’t the quiet strumming of a lute by the fire. But it was okay, they were healing, slowly. 

They found Filavandrel in the mountains. It was tense at first. The elves didn’t like humans and apparently that included Witchers. Geralt could feel Ciri and Yennefer tense beside him, ready for a fight to break out. Geralt spoke clearly pointedly ignoring the other elves in the room, “Filavandrel, I’ve brought your lute back.” he said bluntly. Geralt held out the instrument gently, like it was made of the most precious of gems. “You may recall an age ago giving it to a bard.” Filavandrel nodded confusion written on his face annoyance creeping up beneath it. “I do recall the bard saying he respected us, before singing his songs of our villainy from every tavern on the continent”  
“He did respect you. But humans didn’t want to hear the songs he wrote of unity and kindness. So, he sang to them what would earn him coin, food, or a bed for the night. I am here to return your lute; I don’t know a bard who deserves to play it now.” He took a deep breath as Filavandrel took the wooden instrument from his hands, “and I wish to tell you, the fortress of Kaer Morhen is vacant. The last Witcher has left it. You may go there, use it to house your kingdom. You’ll be safe there.”  
“What could possibly bring a Witcher to this?” Filavandrel asked confusion knotting his eyebrows together  
“My time there has passed, it’s not home anymore.” A quiet moment of unspoken words and understanding passed between the king and the Witcher before they both exchanged short nods.   
“I wish you safe travels, Witcher, and thank you kindly.”

As they left the elves’ lands Geralt let out a sigh, shoulders sagging. Jaskier was gone. His life over and Geralt’s still continuing. Geralt breathed in deep through his nose as he stood taller. He looked to the horizon, humming deep in his chest. He would move on now, but he would never forget the days he spent with his bard. Maybe one day in the distant future he would meet him again, in the life that comes after death. 

Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri headed onwards. Not sure where their destination was but would know when they found it. And they did. After a month of travelling along the lesser known paths, Geralt finding and completing contracts as they went, they found it. A plot of flat ground on a high bank by a river. The river ran fast and wide down towards the coast to join the ocean. Geralt and Yennefer built a little homestead there. It was small and wooden, but strong enough to weather the storms that blew in from the sea. The stables were comfortable, Geralt made sure it was built well enough for Roach. They stayed there for many years, Geralt and Ciri keeping the local villages safe, and Yennefer healing those who were ill or injured. It was a pleasant, almost happy, life for them. 

The house wasn’t too close to the sea but there was a place upon the hill where you could watch the waves crash on the cliffs, where dandelions grew freely and in summer the buttercups would litter the grass with yellow. Geralt would go there sometimes. It made him remember, made him feel closer to home. Sometimes he could fool himself into hearing a song on the wind, sung by a young man with chestnut brown hair and the most beautiful blue eyes the Witcher had loved so deeply.

**Author's Note:**

> Im sorry  
> I literally spent 2 hours writing this & crying at midnight   
> Im a mess  
> hopefully by the end of part three I can make it a bit happier


End file.
